


The Interstellar Discotheque

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trillian, having just got a Babel fish, wants to explore unknown planets. Zaphod, having just got a new arm, wants to be seen. They go dancing at Freg Lunatella's Interstellar Discotheque as a sort of compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> The idea behind this story was "How awesome would it be to dance with a three-armed being?" That's basically all you need to know.

“

“Zaphod?”

        Footsteps sounded on the cold metal floor, the sound of a person creeping closer.

       “…Zaphod?”

       “Weehhrrr…”

        A gentle slap, the connecting of ten fingers against two cheeks. _“Zaphod.”_

“Ack!” Four blue eyes blink open to find two brown eyes staring back at them. The owner of these eyes has to blink a few times to clear them and make sure he isn’t seeing double. “…Oh, it’s you. What do you want, Tricia- er, Trillian?”

        The owner of the pair of brown eyes crosses her arms. “Zaphod, we’ve been floating in deep space for about an hour now. At least, an hour by Earth standards. When are you going to show me some sights?”

        The words wander clumsily through his brain like a dog searching for a hidden bone, and Zaphod blinks rapidly a few more times before struggling just as clumsily to his feet. “Er, what kind of sights are you talking about?”

        “You know.” Trillian’s eyes never soften once. “The surface of alien planets. Interesting star alignments. Things that an astrophysicist like myself would find interesting. Things that I can gather _data_ from.”

        “…Data?” He is mystified. “What in the world d’you want data for, baby?” Both brains fail to turn like clockwork, their mechanisms covered in cobwebs.

         “Well, it only happens to be the reason I came out here, you know.” Her arms fall to her sides, but she is still staring at him with that rock-hard expression. “I thought you said you’d show me ‘really wild things-‘” her fingers make quotation marks in the air- “but here I am, wasting my day watching you lounge about and get drunk on a spaceship. Honestly, I’m starting to doubt you’re as much as a big shot as you say you are. If you’re the President of the Galaxy, why haven’t you _done_ anything yet?”

        “Well.” He swallows nervously with both throats, unsure of how to respond and not liking Trillian’s expression at all. “You know, baby, being Galactic President isn’t as easy as I make it look.” His voice takes on a soft edge, rubbing away the sharp nerves. “I mean, everybody says I had the job cut out for me- what you’re seeing here is total professionalism. But I certainly don’t get paid to loaf around spaceships all day and drink…” A backward glance at a nearby bottle. “Er, whatever it was I was drinking.” Great Zarquon, he’s really let this place go. There aren’t even enough ingredients in his cupboard to make a decent Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, his specialty. “Being President is actually hard work. Rushing around all day signing papers, showing up at movie premieres, being interviewed about my sex life…”

         “Excuse me!” Alarm filters through Trillian’s voice, and Zaphod instantly slaps a hand over the mouth that had spoken and grins apologetically with the other. “Sorry, baby. You know I’d never say anything about what we do together.”

         “You’d better not,” she mumbles, and then raises her voice. “So are we going to attend any… movie premieres today, or will you show me some ‘really wild’ parts of the Galaxy?”

         The question is a no-brainer to Zaphod, even though he has two brains that could easily ponder it out. He lets his hand slip from his mouth. “For you, Trillian, there won’t be any more movie premieres.” Anything that would allow him to dodge his duty to the intergalactic government, even if it was for only a few minutes. “Come with me, doll-face!” Before he knows it, he’s leapt towards her and taken her yielding hands in hers. “I’ll show you some wild sights and get you more data than the shipboard computer could ever process!” Not that the computer was advanced enough for that- it can’t even talk. Zaphod makes a mental note to exchange his dingy ship for a better model eventually, and something twinges inside of him that he instantly shut out. Not now- he is entertaining Trillian.

         Trillian, for her part, stands staring dubiously at Zaphod’s hands enclosing hers, before looking up into his eyes and narrowing them, although her expression has relaxed. “Where are we going?” she asks, quietly and patiently.

         A thought pops into Zaphod’s heads with as much zealousness as a sledgehammer. He shakes his heads to dispel it, and ruminates on the fact that he really needs a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster to get the full effect. Stepping away from Trillian, he runs to the nearby control panel of the spaceship and puts it under manual control, all the while tossing a question over his shoulder. “How often do you go dancing, baby?”

        She follows him, a skeptical look appearing in her eyes, though the rest of her body is calm. “Er, not very often, I’d have to say. My job didn’t let me get out much. What has that got to do with any-“

        Zaphod spins towards her, whirling on his heel, a mad gleam of excitement and mischievousness appearing in his four eyes. “Because you’re in for a real treat now! Sit back and enjoy the flight to Freg Lunatella’s Interstellar Discotheque.” He turns around and pulls eagerly at the controls, and Trillian can only stand in one place for a few moments before repeating the name in disbelief. “Freg Lunatella’s Interstellar Discotheque?”

         “It’s the coolest joint in the galaxy, doll-face,” Zaphod tells her, a warm hand squeezing his heart. “Besides the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, of course- oh man, that place is wild! I’ll have to take you there some time.”

        “But- but I wasn’t expecting a discotheque,” Trillian states in confusion. She wishes that Zaphod would turn to see her face, but he’s not looking at her. “I thought you would show me a planet. Take me to- oh, I don’t know, maybe take me to your home planet or something…”

        “Betelgeuse VI?” He whistles in surprised disgust. “Baby, if you think I’m going to take you _there_ you must be off your rocker. The, er, parental units won’t be particularly glad to see me. In fact, they never are.”

        “Oh.” Trillian lapses into silence before saying, “So you’re taking me dancing?”

       “You bet!” Zaphod would turn around and smile, but he is too busy piloting the ship with one head and trying to remember where to locate the disco with his other. Noting the apprehensive tone in her voice, he tries to appease her with, “Why don’t you read up on the place in the _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_?”

         “The- what?” she tries and fails to repeat blankly.

         Distracted, the best Zaphod can do is say, “The book I left lying in the chair over there. Just type in ‘Freg Lunatella’s Intergalactic Discotheque-‘ you’ll find it eventually.” Suddenly both minds demand him to focus on the scene outside the ship’s window, and he struggles to maintain appearances and simultaneously navigate the ship away from the sudden wormhole that seems to have appeared in his path. Finally he simply turns the autopilot back on and quietly types the coordinates of the discotheque into the computer, suddenly glad that it can’t talk to him. Fifteen fingers trail against the selection of buttons laid out on the control panel, ready to push at the first sign of Trillian’s skepticism.

        Trillian, however, has merely shrugged and gone off in search of this so-called _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy._ Instead of a book, she finds what appears to be a flat computer with many tiny knobs and buttons on it, and is intimidated for a few moments before spotting the words “DON’T PANIC” emblazoned in large friendly letters across the cover. Confusion gives way to curiosity, and Trillian picks the device up, finds the keyboard, and types “Freg Lunatella’s Intergalactic Discotheque” as Zaphod has told her to. Soon she is greeted by scrolling text and a helpful, friendly voice to read it out loud. The very first line makes her want to groan, though. “If you have never tripped the light fantastic with a three-armed, two-headed being before, then you might as well give up on life.”

         “Did you write this yourself, Zaphod?” Trillian asks, not sure if she should feel disgusted or not.

            He turns one head to shake at her, the other one focused on its imaginary work at the control panel. “Nope- my semi-cousin Ford works for the _Guide_ , and he’s done a few… editorial favors for me in the past.” Not many, though, which is one thing Zaphod’s been wanting to rectify ever since he became Galactic President. If only Ford would respond to the messages he’s sent him recently… although one can never really tell where to reach a man who hitchhikes for a living. Still, it’s been about fifteen years since Zaphod last spoke to him, and he knows he has to have gone home to Betelgeuse at least once…

       “Excuse me, your what?” Trillian says, and all thoughts of Ford scatter from Zaphod’s brains like dust in the wind. He idly shrugs and answers out of the corner of his right mouth. “My semi-cousin- oh, forget it, it’s hard to explain. Don’t distract me, baby- I am doing serious work here!” He presses a nearby button to prove it, and suddenly alarms sound throughout the ship, bringing every proceeding to a screeching halt. Trillian claps her hands over her ears, dropping the _Guide_ in the process, and Zaphod groans- he must have turned on the fire alarms. He abandons the control panel and dashes off to find the source of the ringing and constant electronic cries of “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!,” yelling to Trillian as he passes her. “Don’t p- worry, doll-face! Just listen to the _Guide_!”

         “If you say so…” Trillian mutters, and drops to her knees to locate it while Zaphod runs off in what clearly appears to be panic to her.

        By pressing one ear close to the Guide, Trillian can hear the faint and decidedly not-panicked voice speaking to her. “Besides being one of the fabulous Zaphod Beeblebrox’s favorite joints, the Interstellar Discotheque also offers such unique features as holographic karaoke and a lengthy drinks list that includes the best drink from each planet in the Galaxy as decided by a panel of experts. Come in and enjoy the lights, the drinks, the company we keep and most of all, the dancing that will knock you off your feet!”

        “YAAAAAAAAAAH!” a voice suddenly interrupts the _Guide_ , followed by the sound of a blunt instrument (a sledgehammer?) whacking metal. The shrill ringing of the alarm gradually grows slower and fainter, and the calls of “Don’t panic” deepen and slow as well before the sound dies away entirely. Zaphod emerges wiping his hands, a proud look on both faces. “I fixed that fire alarm for good. There was nothing to it!” He brushes past Trillian, who slowly rises to her feet, understanding dawning in her expression. As he saunters back to the control panel to finish his imaginary work, she asks him a question. “Are we on autopilot?”

          “It would _appear_ that way,” Zaphod answers evasively.

         “And did you just destroy the fire alarm for good?”

         “Look at it this way, baby,” Zaphod replies testily. “If there is a fire, at least we won’t hear that horrible alarm anymore. One thing to panic over is enough!”

        Trillian sighs and decides to sit down in Zaphod’s chair, wishing that the ship would hurry up and get to its destination.


	2. During

       “Trillian?”

       Footsteps sound on the cold metal floor, the sound of a person creeping closer.

        “…Trillian?”

        “Mmmm?”

        A gentle tap, the connecting of five fingers against one cheek. “ _Trillian,_ honey.”

       “Mmmmmmm?” A pair of brown eyes snap open and focus on four bright blue eyes staring back in return. “…Oh, it’s you. What do you want, Zaphod?”

          He gives her a look as if she’s just grown another head- well, actually, Trillian figures that Zaphod would look a lot more thrilled and a lot less confused if she grew another head. He certainly wouldn’t be looking at her as if he was trying to understand the mysteries of life, as if such things were concealed inside her eyes. “What are you falling asleep on me for? We’ve arrived at Freg’s disco!”

          Slowly, the words pierce Trillian’s memory, and she struggles to her feet with an odd jelly-like sensation taking hold of her limbs. Her head is spinning with the typical bleariness that accompanies an afternoon nap. “Well, you’d rather I fall asleep on you now and not later, when we’re dancing…”

         His eyes sparkle, but he cannot bring either mouth to say “Touche.” He’s much too _cool_ for that. Instead, one eye on each head winks as his mouths curve into wide, boyish grins. “Come on, baby, what are you waiting for? The night is young and the… the people inside are also young!” A hand stretches towards Trillian, and she takes it to steady herself. Before she knows it, Zaphod has tugged her right into his arms

       “Zaph-“ she starts to say, but her words cut off in a short shriek as Zaphod, exuberant and emboldened by the promise of excitement to come, decides that holding Trillian close isn’t enough for him and lifts her right into his arms. He cradles her close with two while the other right arm moves to press the button that will open the doors of his ship- at least he knows what that one does. The doors slide open with a _whoosh,_ and Zaphod grins winningly at Trillian before pulling the hoods on his jacket over his two heads with his free arm. Trillian gives a few half-hearted wriggles in Zaphod’s arms before realizing he’s too strong for her and resorting to asking, as he carries her out, “Zaphod, will you please put me down?”

       “Sure thing,” he says absently, but waits until the doors have shut tight behind him to set Trillian’s feet back on the ground and allow her to steady herself. Then he adjusts the hoods on his jacket and stretches an offering arm out. Trillian obligingly takes the arm and keeps close as Zaphod leads her through the car park and towards the glass doors of their destination, its name glowing with the unique, fiery glow of neon above the front doors. FREG LUNATELLA’S INTERSTELLAR DISCOTHEQUE.

        Not only is the door made of glass, Trillian observes as she walks towards it, but the entire building is made as glass as well, or at least something as transparent as glass. Despite that, she can’t really see the interior very well at all, except for the writhing bodies and colored disco lights and lyrics scrolling across the very walls, connected to the karaoke machine. But where are the holograms? A smoke-like substance drifts through the air, obscuring everything else. When Zaphod opens the door, her eardrums are assaulted with the pulsating beat of the music, which someone is singing along to very badly.

         “This is the place!” Zaphod shouts over the din, and behind the drooping hoods Trillian can see his smiles. She reaches up and lifts the jacket away from his eyes, shaking her head a bit. “What’s with the disguise?”

        In response, Zaphod theatrically puts a finger to each of his lips. “Ssssh! Not so loud, not so loud. We don’t want everyone to know that the President of the Galaxy is here at the discotheque, now do we?”

        “I suppose not,” Trillian mumbles, though she remembers quizzically the words of the _Guide_ stating that the Interstellar Discotheque is one of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s favorite haunts.

        “Good,” Zaphod says, nodding sharply and enthusiastically. “You understand why we must be secretive. Now, come with me, baby- we’ll get a few drinks first.” He eagerly tugs her hand, and Trillian follows willingly enough, though her head is filled with apprehensions. _What caliber of drinks do they serve here?,_ she wonders.

        Through the hazy atmosphere, and through the connection of their hands, Zaphod can feel the tension in Trillian’s skin, and guesses at her emotions. A small, gnawing feeling of uneasiness grows in the pit of his stomach- he doesn’t want Trillian to have a bad time. Whirling her through the thick, dancing bodies, Zaphod gives Trillian a one-second look of reassurance. “Hey, don’t panic, baby doll. It’s just like the party I rescued you from, remember? I was incognito? We had a great time then, didn’t we?”

       Though Trillian is undeniably nervous about her first endeavor on an alien planet, something inside of her melts when she sees how Zaphod is trying to make her feel comfortable. She flashes a tight smile in return. “Yes, the Islington party was a real bore until you showed up with your dumb parrot act.”

         _Which you saw right through,_ Zaphod thinks smugly, pleased- he is not disappointed with the obviousness of the disguise as much as he is happy with the results it yielded.

         In a few more steps and more than a bit of dodging ecstatically dancing bodies, Zaphod and Trillian have reached the bar at the end of the discotheque. It is then that Zaphod disentangles Trillian from his arm and pulls up a seat at the bar for her. As she hops into it, the lights begin strobing, and the disco is turned into a rave. Zaphod blinks in totally helpless bliss. “Wowee! This place is really jumping out of sight tonight, man!” He hauls himself into a seat beside Trillian and promptly forgets about her presence in his excitement to order a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster at long last. Thanks to the work done by researchers, the Interstellar Discotheque happened to use Zaphod’s own personal recipe, which he had come up with after years of studying the most intoxicating drinks. (It was also for these years that he had suffered more than rejoiced, although the end result has been worth it.) Because of a write-up in that wholly remarkable book, _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,_ however, it soon became exceedingly difficult for even Zaphod to get the ingredients for his own invention, as many people were taking the advice of the _Guide_ and mixing their own. As a result of this, he had taken to visiting restaurants and bars across the Galaxy in order to find the perfect rendering of his genius concoction, until Freg Lunatella approached him one day and announced his desire to sell the original Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, as mixed by Zaphod Beeblebrox himself, at his then-new discotheque. From then on, Zaphod has had to visit Freg’s discotheque for a cheap way of getting his favorite drink, although he doesn’t mind it so much because Freg is a real cool cat, man, and his discotheque is even better than was expected.

       While one head presents this _Guide_ -like divergence from its usual thoughts in order to divulge information that holds no significance whatsoever, Zaphod’s other head grins cheerily up at the bartender who has just approached him and reaches across with one right arm to shake hands with him. “Hey, barman! Good to see you working tonight!” He has seen this person hanging out at the Interstellar Discotheque before, but has never bothered to learn his name. The barman nods genially, noticing the unmistakable sly grin and familiar blue eyes that shine out even from beneath the jacket’s concealing hood. This is Zaphod Beeblebrox if he ever saw the cat, but apparently that’s information that Zaphod doesn’t want leaking to the public. Well, he can’t stay hidden for very long, but the barman won’t be the first person to prove his true identity. He returns the smile and released his hand from Zaphod’s grip, asking as he does so, “How the hell are you?”

        “Baby, the only way I can get happier is if you pour me one of those Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters real smooth, on the double,” Zaphod says with his right head while his left head drifts. When going incognito, he usually prefers to let the right head do the talking- it’s much less prone to tattling about his existence. The barman nods again, knowing full-well about the whole debacle over the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster’s recipe, and thus knowing exactly why Zaphod wants one. He doesn’t reveal that he knows this information, though, instead laughing “Good choice!” and moving away to mix the drink, which must be done in complete secrecy. Not for the security factor, though- it’s very, very dangerous to mix a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster when others are on nearby premises, and he’s ordered to mix at least thirty a day.

         Trillian, who has been watching Zaphod intently and trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares and leers that other nearby beings are shooting her, now opens her mouth to ask, “What’s a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster?”

        Zaphod starts, suddenly remembering that he is with another person, and turns casually over to her. “They’re my own invention, baby doll. You ever had your brains bashed out with a lemon wrapped around a large gold brick?”

         “Er… do you think that’s the sort of thing I’d be likely to survive?” Trillian replies in a blend of confused sarcasm.

        Zaphod smiles and reaches forward to tap Trillian’s temples with one finger. “Drinking one of these has the exact same effect!”

         “And you’re having one at this moment?” Trillian states in alarm. Was this the sort of drink Zaphod usually ordered at discotheques?

         “That’s what I ordered.” He beams. “Don’t worry, Trillian. If it all turns out for the best, the left head will be my designated driver.”

         Trillian starts to reply, but is interrupted by a small blue six-armed being who has been standing nearby and heard the two dead giveaways as to Zaphod’s true identity. “Zaphod Beeblebrox?” he gasps, lunging forward to place three hands on Zaphod’s arm. “Great Zarquon! The _Guide_ said you’d be likely to show up here, and we waited for three nights but didn’t see head nor head of you… and now you’re here, and oh boy, my friends aren’t going to believe this!” He begins bouncing up and down in giddy exultation, and Zaphod realizes his mistake before deciding to hell with incognito after all. He leaps out of his seat and spins around to the wildly gyrating dancers on the smoky floor, announcing to everyone within the building who can hear him, “You can start the party now, guys! Zaphod Beeblebrox himself has arrived!”

        Suddenly the bar becomes very crowded, and Trillian is elbowed and jostled this way and that by all sorts of strange people who want Zaphod’s autograph. She hardly has time to observe the creatures that come at her before she is being rapidly pushed away from Zaphod. Trillian tries valiantly to fight her way back through the crowd, but ends up in the farthest seat at the bar, shaking her head at the brainlessness of the Zaphod-seeing tourists. No matter where she goes, it appears, the mentality surrounding celebrity’s fans is exactly the same.

         And Zaphod is a celebrity, Trillian reflects with a jolt. He may try to attend parties and discos in complete secret, but sooner or later somebody is going to spill the beans. And what happens then? The paparazzi swarm and leave no room for Trillian’s existence. She shudders delicately as she watches the people surrounding Zaphod clamor for his attention. She could never be one of them, fawning over his every move. But Zaphod is just lapping up the attention like a dog would lap up water, turning this way and that and teasing about which head he prefers to be caught on film. His response to being president almost reminds Trillian of another president, a person she left behind on Earth… a certain American leader who had always made her cringe.

       At the other end of the bar, while Trillian observes him from afar, Zaphod is having the time of his life indulging the tourists in their little fun. He gets a bit wary when the press shows up, but fortunately they’re only trashy journalists who are looking to publish a “My Dinner With Zaphod” article in which they released all sorts of shocking secrets about his behavior, most of which are more than likely made up. Besides, it’s not like anyone actually reads those magazines. Sinking back into bliss, Zaphod drinks and chats and poses for photos, answering the occasional question along the way.

       “Hey, we’re loving the new arm, Zaph- why’d you get it?”

       “Oh, you know,” he answers flippantly, showing off by playing with his hair, tapping his glass, and gesturing as he speaks all at once. “I wanted a new look. Plus it sure will help improve my ski-boxing.” The journalists laugh, and both of his heads laugh with them.

       Zaphod’s thoughts are jerked back down a Trillian route, however, when by chance one of the journalists asks, “And by the way, Zaphod, who was that girl you came in with?”

       Zaphod blinks, suddenly realizing he’s forgotten something important. _The girl…_ Where had Trillian got to? He tries to use his right head to peer surreptitiously through the artificial smoke, but it proves to be too much of a challenge- and besides, the world is waiting for his answer. With his left head, he gives a totally relaxed smile to the journalist, a smile that conveys those eternal words of advice- _Don’t panic._

“You saw me come in? Hey, but I was incognito, you know?”

        “Not for long,” the journalist says. “Who was the lady?”

       Zaphod gives a shrug. “Trillian? Aw, she’s nobody. I like to have her around so she can tell me what she thinks of me.” The group laughs, and a slightly unpleasant feeling begins to build in Zaphod’s stomach, but he brutally shoves it aside. Amidst the raucous atmosphere, he gets to his feet with a hurried “I’ll see you later! Duty calls!,” and promptly rushes off along the bar to find Trillian, hoping that she isn’t mad at him and not daring to think of the consequences.

        “OOF!”

       A pair of brown eyes stare down at him. “Zaphod, can’t you walk without tripping over yourself?”

       “Hey, Trillian! I found you!” He scrambles to his feet and boisterously knocks her off hers in a flying embrace. “What say you to a bit of a dance, baby? We can’t stand around all night and get drunk, now can we?”

        “I had no intentions of the sort,” she says in a steely, clipped tone, which brings Zaphod up short. He immediately lets go of her waist, and she darts back from his now-fallen arms and stares down as her feet, the hint of an annoyed scowl beginning on her face. Zaphod struggles to keep his face from falling. He has gone out of his way to bring his new date here, and now she is rejecting him. She isn’t having a good time. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, not sure what to do or what to say, before regaining his confidence and holding an arm out to Trillian, who lifts her eyes to stare at it with scorn.

        “Baby.” He speaks softly, so that she has to strain to listen to his vibrant tones beneath the pounding music. “You know it’s just a job, and-“ _And I don’t even know why I’m doing it,_ sounds in his head, but he cancels that out quickly. “I’ll keep those journalists off our backs if you come out to the dance floor with me. Just a few quick ones, and then we can go back to the spaceship if you want. What d’you say?” His arm reaches tantalizingly towards her, and Trillian looks at it and thinks that Zaphod could charm his way out of a life or death situation if he had to. She relents and slowly reaches out to clasp his hand in return. “Okay,” she says, finally daring to glance up into his dazzling blue eyes. “I’m ready for anything.”

         As it turns out, however, the nightly dance lessons Trillian had once taken for a week back on Earth were no match for Zaphod’s expert skills. She is shocked as he moves her across the floor, spinning to an intricate beat that weaves in and out of the disco music. He side-steps, shuffles, and breaks out every dance move known to man, and many others known only to aliens, with Trillian ably mirroring him all the way. Somehow he is able to avoid the tightly-packed bodies on the floor, seeing through the false smoke that pours from the smoke machine. Trillian, for her part, can’t see anything but Zaphod’s two faces beaming down at her. She is sweating and growing out of breath, and yet this is the most fun she’s had in a long time- quite possibly in her life.

       “Here we go!” Zaphod yelps as the twelve-minute dance remix of a song Trillian’s never heard before reaches its climax, right before the crashing ending. With a few deft strides, they have made it to the center of the room, which clears immediately to make way for the President and his date. Together, Zaphod and Trillian finish the dance, Trillian grabbing hold of Zaphod’s second right arm as he spins her out. They change positions, and she rolls back into him, his arms coming to clasp her around the waist while the extra arm pushes her hair back so that she can gaze at his face unobstructed. Without any warning, Zaphod turns her and dips her, using both right arms for support. The long, creamy fingers on his left hand caress her cheek, and Trillian finds that she is smiling so widely she expects her face to break. She laughs and suddenly can’t stop, and Zaphod laughs in response as the song cools down and the tourists flock around, forming a circle to block Zaphod and Trillian off from the rest of the dancing couples. The cameras come out, but Zaphod and Trillian hardly notice, lost in their own joyful world. Slowly, Zaphod lifts Trillian back up, though he doesn’t let go of her waist, and she adjusts her headscarf.

         “Trillian? You know what?”

        “What, Zaphod?” she gasps.

        “I think I might love you,” he declares, before leaning in to quickly peck her cheeks, both at once. This is when the flashbulbs go off, and Trillian is a bit startled. She pulls away from Zaphod when he lets go of her and gazes around herself at the paparazzi ring in sheer bewilderment.

       “Zaphod… did they just-?”

       A hand tugs her hand. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby. Let’s go get you a drink.”

       She looks back over at him. “The Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster?”

        He chuckles. “Yep. You can finish mine.”

       “All… right…” They break through the crowd together, and Trillian is lost in the haze as Zaphod goes over to the bar, fetches his half-drunk glass of alcohol and hands it over to Trillian. She peers into the mug, notices the swirling acidic contents, and shrugs. Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as all that. She takes one sip and forgets everything else for the rest of the night.


	3. After

        …

       …

      “Trillian?”

        Her eyes open and a needle of piercing, painful light blasts into her skull. Immediately she snaps her eyes shut once more and groans.

       “Zaphod?” she tries to say, but the name turns to mush in her mouth. Through the haze of gauze that seems to be covering her swollen ears, she hears the sound of footsteps creeping towards her, each one louder than a pistol shot. A disgusting smell reaches her nostrils and her stomach turns. She struggles to sit up among her squishy, opulent surroundings.

         “Trillian…” Her adopted name sounds weak in the still, pallid air of artificial morning. It rings in her ears, bringing an ugly and cruel tone with it. Somewhere in her heart, Trilian knows that this is not the name she prefers. But it’s what she chose for Zaphod to call her, and he’s probably forgotten her real name by now anyway.

        “Zaphod.” At last she makes her way out of the imposing, strangling bedsheets and sits up, her head spinning around with a rollicking feeling. Her mouth is extremely dry, with a bad taste in the back of her throat. She swallows hard and blinks rapidly, trying to remember if Zaphod is supposed to have two or three heads. “What… what happened?”

        “You got very, very drunk baby doll,” Zaphod says as he slowly spins back into his normal shape. “One sip of Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster was all it took. Man, it was wild- you sure love to dance dirty!” He whistles to show how impressed he is, both mouths moving in perfect harmony. “And I can’t even tell you what you wanted to do once we go back here in good company… I’m sure the walls would blush.”

        “Zaphod?” The name comes out clearer now, and Trillian shakes her head in an attempt to dispel her hangover. This does not prove to be a good idea, and she clutches her bedsheets as the world turns out of control. “Did you sleep here last night? Did you…?” _But he couldn’t have done it the normal way,_ her mind thinks, but no relief comes from that errant musing. If she had been drunk enough to dirty dance with Zaphod, she had definitely been drunk enough to consent to the strange type of sex for which Zaphod had gotten an extra arm.

        For once, Zaphod’s faces grow grave, a sight which Trillian has never seen before. At once she begins to panic internally, and tries to get to her feet, only to not be able to figure out where her legs end and her feet begin. Then Zaphod speaks, and both of Trillian’s eyes are trained on him.

        “Don’t worry, babe. We didn’t do anything.” He chuckles to lighten the mood. “Not even I would let you do what you suggested last night, and I go in for a lot.”

        The panicky feeling dissipates, and Trillian finds herself smiling through the splitting pain in her head. She doesn’t even mind when Zaphod presses a cup of nasty-smelling liquid into her hand. “Here, drink this. It’s great for after you’ve tried Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster for the first time.” Trillian accepts and drinks, fighting her reaction to spit the stuff out, while Zaphod moves to sit down on the bed- his bed, and hers as well now. He continues in a surprisingly nonchalant tone, not looking at her. “Hey, I invented the stuff, and even I conked out when I first tried it. You’ll feel better in no time, Trillian.”

         She nods, setting the cup down in her lap, and thanks him. Zaphod nods both heads simultaneously, his eyes tight but gleaming with that inner spark which Trilian now loves. She reaches out to place her hand on his arm. “Zaphod…” she says, a bit self-consciously, unsure if she dreamed the words she imagines in her head. Zaphod turns one head to look at her. “Mmmm?”

        “Last night at the discotheque…” Trillian begins. “I… I can’t remember… but, I think I agree. I think I love you too.”

       She leans forward and kisses Zaphod, once on his left mouth and once, after turning his head towards hers, on the right head. He blinks both sets of eyes and then smiles.

        “Thank you.”

       “You’re welcome.”


End file.
